Unfit for duty
by JennaEf
Summary: An aftermath of "The Blind Banker". My take on what might have happened between Sherlock and John. Disclamer: do not own.
1. Changing plans

**Author's Notes: I wish to thank my wonderful beta-reader, PrincessNala. Thank you for your amasing work!**

It was still dark outside when Sherlock got back to Baker Street from the supermarket. Lowering grocery bags on the floor, he shrugged off his coat, then picked up the bags and went upstairs.

Depositing bags on kitchen table, the dark-haired man took off his shoes and tiptoed into his companion's bedroom. Locating John's phone, detective switched the alarm off, and padded out of the room and back downstairs. There he dialed the clinic.

"Hello. Can I speak with Sara Sawyer, please? Yes, I'll wait… Hello, Sara. No, everything's alright. John is fine… Well, that's actually why I'm calling. I know he should be at work today, but is it possible for him to take a day off? Can it be arranged? Yeah, it was quite a blow… Yes, I'm determined to see to that… Thank you, Sara. I'll be in touch."

Satisfied, Sherlock started to put groceries into the freezer and cupboards. The only items he left on the table were the bottle of wine and a small paper bag. Finishing his task, he sat comfortably in his favorite armchair, picked up a book and waited…

At exactly 8 a.m. John shouted "Sherlock!" from upstairs, and then younger man heard a dull thud. Concerned, Sherlock dashed up the stairs and wrenched the door open.

The good doctor was literally picking himself up from the floor, but still managed to fix his flatmate with a hard stare.

"Sherlock, have you disabled my alarm?"

"Yes, John."

"Care to tell me why?" doctor's voice was calm, but his eyes were blazing.

"Well, I can name at least three reasons," the great detective started ticking off said reasons with his fingers. "First, yesterday you received a strong blow to your head, and your fall confirms this. Second, I think that we should talk, so I want you to stay home today. And third – I need your help."

"Help with what?"

"Ah, so the first two reasons accepted. Help with the experiment."

"Experiment?"

"Yes. But first of all we should have breakfast. I'll be waiting for you in the kitchen. And don't bother to dress for work, because you're not going. I already phoned Sara and arranged everything."

"What? Sherlock..," John said in exasperation.

"You'll thank me later, John. You need rest, and I'm going to see to that. Kitchen, ten minutes. Is that fine with you?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Always, John. Take as long as you need," Sherlock smiled and left the room…

Ten minutes later his friend appeared in the kitchen, dressed in a striped jumper and well-worn jeans. Sherlock, rummaging in the cupboard, glanced at him and nodded approvingly.

"For the record – I don't like you making decisions on my behalf without asking me first," John leaned on the kitchen counter, arms crossed and body tense.

"I thought I voiced my reasons clearly," the detective pulled out a pot from the shelf, and placed it on the counter.

"Doesn't mean that I agree with them."

"Well, you are here, aren't you? Sit down, breakfast's getting cold."

The blond-haired man huffed indignantly, but moved to the table and sat. Surveying the layout, he asked doubtfully:

"You cooked all that?"

"Partially. Mrs Hudson helped."

"Thought so."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. John pressed onward.

"So what exactly is cooked by you?"

"Bacon and eggs," Sherlock replied calmly. "Enough talking, John. We have all day for that. Eat your breakfast."

"I will if you will."

Sherlock grinned and went to sit across from his flatmate at the kitchen table.

"Bon appetite, John," younger man took the cutlery and dug into his meal…


	2. Confrontation

**Author's Notes: the story wasn't supposed to go that way, but Ravengirl1011 put an idea into my head... Anyway, here is the second chapter. Enjoy! More to come**...

When breakfast was eaten and the dishes put away, Sherlock deposited on the table a bottle of wine, a paper bag and a pot.

"What's this?" John frowned.

"An experiment."

The ex-army doctor picked up the paper bag and peered inside curiously, then glanced at his companion in disbelief.

"Mulled wine?"

"Precisely."

"Sherlock, are you trying to get me drunk? Because I might have a concussion, you know. Alcohol is not the wisest decision in this situation."

"Who said anything about experimenting on YOU? I just want us to do something together."

"Why?"

"I need to study you."

John suddenly became VERY agitated.

"What? Sherlock, I'm not the one of your bloody cases! If I decided to move in with you it doesn't mean…"

"Why are you angry with me?" the detective interrupted, frowning.

"Why? Don't pretend that you don't know why!" John was losing it, he realised, but he couldn't do a damned thing to stop himself. It felt as if somebody was controlling him.

Sherlock suddenly moved towards him, and John stepped back involuntarily. The taller man stopped, puzzled expression on his face.

"John, are you alright? You're acting strange. Maybe we should get you to a hospital?"

His head hurt, he realised suddenly. He needed to get away, to spend some time alone and get himself under control. Turning on his heels, he marched out of the kitchen and down the stairs. Sherlock followed him into the living room and stopped at the top of the stairs.

"Where are you going, John?" he called hesitantly after his friend.

"Out. I need some air," putting on his coat, the doctor turned and glanced at his flatmate. "Don't follow me, or we both may regret it. And don't call. I'll return when I'm ready to."

The taller man looked at him searchingly, then smiled slightly.

"Very well, John. But you should put your shoes on if you're going out."

The blond-haired man glanced at his feet and chuckled slightly.

"Oh. You're right," he started to ascend the stairs.

His companion moved back into the living room and flopped down on the sofa. The doctor went into his room and soon reappeared, wearing his boots. Sherlock glanced up from his book. Anytime now, just need to stall a little.

"You asked me not to call you, and I won't," he said calmly, "But I have one small request."

"Yeah. What is it?" John blinked and raised a hand to his head.

"Nicotine patches. I'm out of them"

"Okay."

"Then I'll be waiting, John. Please come back soon."

"No pressure, Sherlock."

"Sorry," the younger man shrugged his shoulders. "Your rules, John. Have a good time."

Outside, he looked relaxed and nonchalant. But inside him, the power coiled, ready to unwind and take action. And when John turned, wavered and started to fall forward, Sherlock launched himself from the sofa and across the room, barely managing to catch the smaller man before he hit the floor.

"I told you that I want you to stay at home today, John," he carefully lowered his burden all the way to the floor, shaking his head reproachfully. "You should've listened to me…"


	3. Who are you?

It took a little effort for Sherlock to get John over to the sofa and deposit him there. He snatched a pillow from the chair and a blanket from the back of the sofa, and made sure that the smaller man rested comfortably, practically tucking him in. Surveying the results of his work with satisfaction, he stepped back and gracefully folded himself into his favourite armchair. With John sound asleep he had at least couple of hours to think the situation over. There really were a lot of things to consider.

Almost two months had passed since the day he decided to share a flat with John Watson, and he already pretty much got used to the other man's presence. The initial idea was to find someone who would be able to help him pay the rent. Preferably someone who would mind his own business and managed not to be too much annoying. People were boring and frustratingly predictable, all of them. There were only three people Sherlock considered more or less interesting – his brother Mycroft, Detective Inspector Lestrade and his landlady, Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade gave him cases and the opportunity for his mind to exert itself; Mrs. Hudson watched over him and made sure he continued functioning, and as for Mycroft… At the back of his mind Sherlock realised that his brother was the only person he could rely on in any circumstances. But that meant Sherlock's dependency on his brother, the fact far too annoying for his liking. So he preferred to see Mycroft as his arch-enemy, his rival; that gave his life additional thrill. And he was perfectly content with the way things were.

John Watson managed to attract his attention right from the beginning. Glancing briefly at his phone and at the man himself, Sherlock instantly deduced his occupation, his recent misfortune in Afghanistan and his strained relationship with his family. What he failed to deduce is that John Watson wasn't so simple. In fact, he was anything but.

John considered his deductions extraordinary and voiced it out in every opportunity. John followed him to the crime scene and made himself extremely useful to Sherlock. John turned down Mycroft's attempt to get him to spy on Sherlock and rushed back to Baker Street when the consulting detective texted him. John kept up with Sherlock during the mad dash after the cabbie across Soho. And finally – and they both knew that - John saved Sherlock's life with one well-aimed shot.

And Sherlock lied to Lestrade without blinking, because when he met John's eyes across the street, he instantly knew that John killed for him. And that he finally found his match; the man, who could make him whole. The feeling was new, uncomfortable, unusual, but Sherlock welcomed it and vowed silently to make the whole thing work.

Life at the Baker Street 221B settled into easy and comfortable routine. But it wasn't boring, never that. Sherlock got on John's nerves with his bizarre experiments, and John reciprocated by annoyingly pestering Sherlock about food and sleep. When they had a break between cases, John stumbling into the kitchen in the morning and making a beeline to the kettle was the sight Sherlock quickly got used to associate with being home. And their bickering about who gets to go to the shop this time was almost delightful. Life couldn't have been better.

Then the case of the Blind Banker came. John managed to find himself a job and, unfortunately for Sherlock, met Sara. Bit by bit, John started to slip away. He still was with Sherlock most of the time, but his attention now was divided between Sherlock and Sara. And Sherlock didn't like it. But the case proved to be interesting enough, so the detective decided to deal with Sara later.

The yellow paint across the windows of their flat almost stopped Sherlock's heart. In his haste to crack the cipher he left John alone, and now John could've been dead, and all of that would've been Sherlock's fault. Luckily enough, he got to the tunnels right in time to save his companion…

But they still had A LOT of things to talk about. Which brought Sherlock's attention back to his sleeping flatmate. The doctor now stirred restlessly in his sleep, murmuring occasionally, and the younger man suddenly picked up his violin, fully intending to ease his companion back into the sound sleep. But when the first sounds of music drifted into the air, John unexpectedly reacted with painful moan. Alarmed, Sherlock put the violin down and went to the sofa. Leaning over, he touched John's shoulder carefully.

"John," he called quietly. "John, wake up."

For the moment, nothing happened. Then John stilled, and his eyes flew open. Looking into them, Sherlock felt his skin crawl. There was no recognition in the dark depths, the stare was hard, cold, assessing. The voice at the back of the younger man's mind screamed at him to get away as quickly as possible, but it was already too late. The next moment John's fist slammed into his jaw, sending the detective flying backwards.

Dazed from the blow, Sherlock still managed to twist sideways, narrowly missing the coffee table. He landed on his back painfully, the air whooshing out of his lungs with the force of the impact.

John was on top of him in mere seconds. Still trying to get his breath back, dark-haired man felt himself unceremoniously flipped onto his stomach, and his arms were wrenched behind his back. After that the ex-army medic grabbed the collar of his dressing gown and yanked it down, effectively trapping the younger man's arms in the sleeves.

A knee was pressed sharply into the small of his back and a cold voice hissed into his ear.

"Okay, where am I and who the hell are you?"


	4. Stranger

Shocked and disbelieving, Sherlock started to struggle against his captor's hold.

"John?" he gasped. "What the hell…"

His attacker huffed in exasperation and laid his hands on the detective's shoulders, pressing him to the floor.

"You're going to be difficult, aren't you? Do I need to tie you up?"

"John, it's me, Sherlock! Let me go, it's not funny!"

"Pleased to meet you, Sherlock. And I'm not joking. Do I need to repeat my questions, in case if you hadn't heard them the first time?"

John sounded deadly serious, the younger man realised. Or that wasn't John at all. The ex-army medic was acclimatised to violence, Sherlock already knew that. But he never could've imagined being the object of said violence. To his utter amusement, he discovered himself wanting to know more about the stranger in John's body.

"I've heard you." He answered mildly, ceasing his struggle and relaxing his body completely. "I'm Sherlock Holmes and you are currently in our flat. And before you ask, yes, we are flatmates. Do you remember who you are?"

"Interesting explanation. But that's hardly the truth, pal."

"Can we continue this conversation in more comfortable positions? There are chairs in this room, if you haven't already noticed."

"You're taking me for a fool, obviously. Do you really think I'll let you go?"

"Why not?"

"Well, for a start, I don't trust you."

"Perfectly understandable. But let's consider someone walking in there..."

The pressure on his shoulders lightened, and then disappeared entirely.

"Alright, I'm going to let you get up. Slowly and carefully, understood? And if you'll try to do anything other than that, you'll regret it. Am I clear?"

Sherlock nodded, scowling inwardly. Predictable, like the rest. Now he just needed to play it right to completely reverse the current situation. In his mind's eye he already imagined the strategy and the result quite clearly and therefore was totally unprepared when his tangled arms were painfully jerked up and his dressing gown used for the purpose of binding them expertly. And, judging by the sounds of tearing fabric, his favourite piece of clothing was obviously ruined in the process. After that John easily hoisted him up and Sherlock now was kneeling on the floor.

"Thanks for the warning, Sherlock. All I need to do now is lock the door up. But before that…" the smaller man moved to stand in front of his prey, holding in his hands a stripe of silk with the knot tied in the middle. "Open up."

The consulting detective shook his head vehemently and clumped his mouth shut.

"Okay, have it your way," John swiftly struck a spot on the younger man's shoulder, and Sherlock howled in pain. Using this opportunity, his adversary shoved the knotted fabric into his mouth and tied it at the back of the head. "That's better."

Bound and helpless, completely at the mercy of a stranger with the familiar face – it was fairly humiliating. But at the same time – and it was a surprise for Sherlock – he found himself quite enjoying being manhandled by John. The good doctor was so out of character that simply observing him proved to be an exiting experience.

Meanwhile his captor, as he announced earlier, was closing and locking both doors of their flat. Finishing his task, the blond-haired man strolled towards Sherlock, urged him to stand up, than expertly tripped him so the taller man ended up falling on the sofa in half-sitting position. Then the doctor made a huge mistake of leaning over his seemingly incapacitated hostage. Sherlock just couldn't resist. Swiftly bringing his legs up, the detective kicked out with all the strength he could master, his feet connecting sharply with John's stomach and propelling the shorter man back and on a collision course with the chair. John crashed into it, tipping the chair over, and landed on the floor, moaning painfully.

'You had it coming, John,' Sherlock thought with satisfaction. And right at that moment his mobile phone, which he'd left in the kitchen, beeped with the sound of an incoming message…


	5. Playing the game

**Author's Notes: okay, the story seems to be moving towards its end, the next chapter would be the last. Having said that, I wish to thank all of you for your support, understanding and just generally for being so nice to me. And thank you for your reviews, they ****are ****really inspired me to keep writing. THANK YOU!**

N.B.: in this chapter, Sherlock's thoughts denoted _like that_.

Right, the story… Here we go.

* * *

_Great, just great._

Hitching himself up, Sherlock surveyed John's crumpled body. The smaller man was out cold, and Sherlock couldn't even call out to him. Getting across the room also wasn't an option, because with his hands bound behind his back it would've been pointless. He could only wait and hope that John will regain consciousness sooner or later.

_First option preferred._

But luckily, someone who sent the message wasn't going to waste the precious time in waiting, and two minutes later John's phone beeped, vibrating in the doctor's jeans pocket.

_Almost a miracle that it survived such an impact, considering the circumstances. Come on, John, wake up! I need you to read that message._

His flatmate moved slightly with painful groan, then tried to raise himself up cautiously. Finally achieving the sitting position, the ex-army medic reached into his pocket and pulled his mobile out. Then he pressed the button and peered at the screen in confusion.

"Who the hell is Lestrade?"

Sherlock tried to speak, but with the gag still firmly in his mouth, only the string of garbled sounds emerged. Alarmed, John glanced up quickly and spotted his attacker.

"Oh no, absolutely not," he said, noticing the hopeful expression on Sherlock's face, "I'm not going anywhere near you again. Once was quite enough, thank you."

_Damn. But he didn't trust you, he said so himself. And you just had to make the situation worse, hadn't you? Think! You NEED to get him to trust you somehow. Use your imagination!_

Suddenly an idea flashed into his mind, and he hurried to slide from the sofa onto the floor and proceeded to curl himself up into a ball, trying to make himself as small as possible.

_See, John? Absolutely harmless and helpless. No threat at all, safe to get near. I even turned my back to you, does it say something? Come on!_

"Don't pretend to be a victim, I'm not buying that, pal," John retorted sternly. "I've seen it all before, and I got to tell you, nothing good came out of it."

_Not good. Not good at all. Don't lapse into your memories, John; I need you here and now._

"But on the other hand, I may give you one more chance. After all, if anything goes wrong, I'll just knock you out."

_Bingo!_

Stilling himself, the detective heard his flatmate's footsteps, cautiously getting nearer. A moment later the cloth in his mouth tightened slightly – John was untying the knot – and then was pulled out.

"Thank you," Sherlock said simply. "And I'm really sorry."

"You ought to be," John easily lifted him from the floor and again deposited onto the sofa. "Luckily for you, I'm not in the mood for teaching you a hard lesson."

"Lucky me."

"Exactly. Now, who is Lestrade?"

"The Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard."

"Yeah? And why is he texting me?"

"Because apparently he texted me, got no answer and duplicated his message onto your phone."

"Why?"

"Because we work together, you and me."

"Just what kind of work are we talking about, considering the fact that it involves the police? Who are you?"

_Oh, here we go. Déjà-vu._

"Consulting detective."

"Meaning?"

_Oh God, please not again!_

"Not important right now. Just read the text."

"Self-centred, are you?"

"No, just work-oriented. The text?"

John huffed in exasperation, but started to read nonetheless.

"Dimmock sends his regards. New information on the case. Call back when you can."

"We need to go, John."

"Wait, not so fast. I still know nothing about you, and you just expect me to untie you and dash with you somewhere?"

"To put it simply, yes"

_Why are you wasting my time with this nonsense, can't you understand that this message is IMPORTANT? Oh, wait, I need to PROVE it to you again, right? How dull…_

"I'm not going anywhere," the blond-haired man shook his head defiantly.

Sherlock felt his temper flaring, and if his hands weren't tied behind his back, he would definitely throw them up in the air.

"Great, fine!" the detective snarled acidly. "Then untie me and get the hell out of my flat. You're slowing me down!"

"With pleasure!" John's dark eyes blazed. "I wonder why I've agreed to work with you in the first place!"

_Oh, that's really low, John!_

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because it finally gave the meaning to your miserable existence?"

The ex-army doctor looked at him with such venom, that Sherlock suddenly and unexpectedly felt himself shaken to the core.

_Never knew it existed in you, John. Or I never really knew you at all._

"Well, if I'm such a hindrance for you, I think it would be better for both of us to part company."

Something nagged at the back of Sherlock's mind, a fleeting thought, a shadow of something important.

_I'm missing something. What is it?_

Meanwhile John leaned over him and busied himself with the task of freeing his arms. It took him couple of minutes, and then he threw the remnants of Sherlock's dressing gown on the floor. The detective stretched his arms with obvious relief, and then moved them about, trying to shake off the numbness. His former colleague watched him with narrowed eyes.

"Are you done? Because I distinctly remember you saying that you need to go somewhere."

"I will, but you can leave right now. We'll sort the matter of you moving out later. Oh, and don't forget to leave your keys in the flat."

_I'm sorry that this ends like that, John. But if we can't trust each other, there's no point to continue. And I can't trust someone I don't know._

"Fine," was all John said. "No need to showing me out, I'll find the door."

"Wasn't going to."

"Right," the older man unlocked the door, opened it and stopped abruptly, turning to look at Sherlock. "One last question."

"If you must…" the detective's voice sounded extremely bored.

"Sherlock, what stuff did you slip into my breakfast?"

_WHAT? JOHN!__!_


	6. A quarrel

The two men remained frozen in place for the several moments: one sitting on the sofa and the other standing near the door. John was the first to break the silence.

"Sherlock?" he asked anxiously. "Sherlock, say something."

"Shh, John," the younger man frowned. "I'm thinking."

"About?"

Sherlock glanced at him, and John shivered under his cold, emotionless stare.

"About you. How come that I've miscalculated so badly, John? I don't understand."

"I think that we both did, Sherlock," seeing the detective's blank look, he elaborated. "Miscalculated, I mean."

"The main question is to whom I'm speaking now, John?"

"That depends on how you want it to be from now on, Sherlock. I realise that I've hurt you..."

"That's a bit of understatement."

"Don't interrupt me, okay? I've hurt you, but you're as guilty as I am."

"What do you mean?" the dark-haired man raised an eyebrow, clearly puzzled.

The ex-army medic resolutely closed the door and, crossing the room, sat in the chair near the sofa. He didn't fail to notice that the man on the sofa flinched almost imperceptibly.

"You didn't answer my question about the breakfast, Sherlock."

"A mild soporific."

"You see? That's exactly what I'm talking about. You're making decisions about my life without asking me first. That's disrespectful."

"I voiced my reasons."

Frustrated, the doctor sprang up from his chair and started pacing, unconsciously clenching and unclenching his fists.

"You're not listening to me, Sherlock! And frankly, I'm getting fed up with it!"

"Don't generalise, John. If your opinion didn't matter to me, you wouldn't be here right now."

His flatmate threw his hands up, muttering something under his nose. Then, nearing the door, he slammed his fist into it. The younger man winced and started to stand, intending to help his companion, but John resolutely put his arm out, as if holding him off.

"Stay where you are, Sherlock!" the doctor barked.

The detective obeyed, but his eyes were focused on his friend's injured hand.

"You're bleeding, John." Sherlock said calmly.

The shorter man studied his hand absentmindedly. His knuckles were split, and only now he finally started to feel the pain.

"Damn," he muttered, cradling his injured hand protectively.

In a flash, Sherlock appeared near him, threw an arm around his shoulders and escorted him over to the sofa. When John was comfortably settled, the dark-haired man disappeared into the kitchen and soon returned with the first-aid kit. John reached out and snatched the kit out of his hands.

"I'll manage, thank you," he said gruffly, rummaging in the small bag and pulling out gauze pads, band-aids, a bottle of saline and an antiseptic spray. Then he started to clean and bandage his damaged hand, occasionally hissing and wincing slightly.

When John refused his help, Sherlock looked hurt for a moment, and then his expression become unreadable. Slowly he got to his chair, sat down, leaned back and closed his eyes.

"I think I should be thankful to that door," he said matter-of-factly.

"What?" John asked in confusion. "Why?"

"Because it's me you were going to hit otherwise, isn't it?"

John stilled, and then sighed heavily. "Sherlock…"

"Am I wrong?" the younger man opened his eyes and looked at him intently.

"No, but…" John sighed again. "It's complicated, Sherlock."

"Yeah? How so?"

The doctor was silent for a moment, while he finished sticking the last band-aids on. Then he raised his head and met his flatmate's eyes resolutely. "It's just... Sometimes you really get on my nerves, Sherlock..."

"I see."

"No, you don't. And that's the main problem, Sherlock. God, it should be blatantly obvious to anyone! And yet you, with all your intelligence, manage to miss the point completely! And I don't... I shouldn't... Damn it!" he thumped the sofa with his bandaged hand. "Ow!"

Sherlock started to say something, but right at that moment his mobile buzzed again. The detective swiftly rose from the chair, crossed the room and grabbed his phone from the kitchen counter. He read the message, frowned and started typing furiously.

"What happened?" John was still cradling his damaged hand, but the pain seemed to abate.

"It's Lestrade again. I've been summoned."

"Okay. Where are we going?"

"Not 'we', John. You're staying."

"What? Sherlock..."

"I need to think it all over. Alone. Don't wait for me, John!" and with that, the detective disappeared from the room. The doctor heard him descending the stairs, then Sherlock seemed to pause for a moment – getting his coat on, no doubt – and after that the front door opened and closed. Sherlock was gone.

'I should've followed him' John thought tiredly. 'He always gets himself in trouble. I should, but this time I really don't want to.'

He didn't know how long had he sat like that, not moving and staring straight ahead, lost in his thoughts. A knock at the front door distracted him, and he hurried downstairs, hoping that it was Sherlock returning.

"Changed your mind, aren't you?" he yanked the door open and stopped short.

"Greetings, John." Mycroft Holmes said pleasantly. "May I come in?"

* * *

**P.S.: Whoops! Not the last chapter, I guess. Sorry. But when Mycroft Holmes knocks at your door, how can you refuse?..**


	7. Unexpected guest

"Now's not the best time for a visit," John said warningly, still blocking the entrance to their flat. "Sherlock could be returning at any moment."

"No, he is not, to the best of my knowledge," the elder Holmes smiled slightly, then leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial voice. "It's perfectly safe to let me in, John."

"Yeah?" the doctor's voice dripped with sarcasm. "And you know that how?"

"Don't pretend to be dumb, John, it doesn't suit you," Mycroft's voice suddenly became hard. "And besides, after the events I've witnessed today, you're hardly able to fool me."

"What do you mean?" John narrowed his eyes.

"Let's avoid attracting unwanted attention, my dear John," this time Mycroft's smile was fairly unpleasant. "We need to talk, and I suggest we should better do that upstairs."

"What if I refuse?"

"Something tells me that you wouldn't. You're too smart and practical for that."

John briefly weighed his options and then reluctantly stepped back, letting the elder Holmes inside. Mycroft nodded with satisfaction and walked upstairs. The ex-army doctor quickly shut the door and hurried after his unexpected guest. Mycroft was waiting politely at the top of the stairs, leaning casually on his ever-present umbrella.

"Please, make yourself at home," John sidestepped his visitor in order to get to the kitchen door. "Tea or coffee?"

"Coffee, black, two sugars," Mycroft walked confidently towards Sherlock's favourite chair and sat down. There was a derisive snort from the kitchen, and the politician raised an eyebrow. "Something you wanted to say, doctor Watson?"

"No, not at all," the kettle boiled, and John poured the steaming water into two cups. "You mentioned about the events you've witnessed today. Care to elaborate on that?"

"You know fairly well what I was talking about, John. Do you remember our first meeting? More specifically, the little demonstration I've given you?"

"How could I forget?" the blond-haired man carried the cups into the living room and passed one of them to his guest. "Dirty trick, if you ask my opinion."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, doctor. I couldn't risk my brother's safety by trusting a complete stranger."

"Your brother is old enough to make his own decisions and take responsibility for them, don't you think?"

"Oh, he certainly is. But that doesn't mean he can't make mistakes."

"Just what the hell are you implying?" John's facial expression hardened.

"There's no need to be so hostile, my dear John. I'm not accusing you of anything."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I'm concerned about him. Sherlock is special, John, I think you know that already. He is devoted to his job, and usually doesn't concern himself with such a mundane task of self-preservation. And therefore he needs someone, who is able to do that for him. That's why I picked you."

"Now wait a second!" John interrupted, clearly agitated. "What do you mean, you picked me? I'm not a pawn in your bloody political game, mister Holmes!"

"Such bravery and such passion," Mycroft smiled slightly. "Of course you aren't, doctor Watson. In fact, you have almost a leading part. You're my brother's keeper."

"What?" the ex-army medic was at a loss for a moment.

"Well, as you already know, we aren't exactly keen on the subject of brotherly love…"

"Yeah, and why exactly, by the way?"

"That's not important right now," irritation was clearly audible in the older man's voice. "If you wish, you can ask Sherlock about that later, I'm sure he'll be happy to enlighten you."

"Sorry," John managed to look really chastised. "You were saying?"

"I've read your file, John, and you're seemed to fulfill the requirements perfectly…"

"There were requirements?" the smaller man asked incredulously.

"But maybe I've overlooked something. So tell me, John, what exactly I've seen? Can you explain what happened here between you and Sherlock a few hours ago?"

'That's it,' John thought, slamming his cup down on the table. 'That's the last straw.'

"Out!" he snarled. "And I don't care what are you going to do with me, because I'm not afraid of you, mister Holmes! And spying on your own brother – that's really sick, because he really deserves your respect! Not to mention that I hadn't agreed to be your entertainer, and, frankly, neither did Sherlock. So you can stuff your concern where the sun don't shine and leave us the hell alone!"

"Bravo, John," Mycroft's face never changed its calm expression. "I was sure I was't mistaken."

The elder Holmes placed his cup on the table carefully and rose from the chair. Crossing the room unhurriedly, he glanced back over his shoulder.

"Just keep him safe, John. And be patient, because you know already, what he's like. Oh, and I don't need to remind you to keep quiet about our little chat, do I?"

"What if I don't want to keep it quiet?" John asked stubbornly, still fuelled by his anger.

"That will be the most unwise decision, my dear John. But the choice is still yours. The correct phrase on such an occasion is 'take it or leave it', I believe? How accurate, I might add. Have a nice day, doctor Watson."

After Mycroft's departure John sat in his chair, unmoving, trying to get himself under control. The elder Holmes was obviously pleased with the result of their meeting, although the doctor honestly couldn't understand why. But maybe, when it came to dealing with Holmes' brothers, it was safer just to take some things for granted?

His mobile chirped with the incoming call, and he pulled it out of his pocket. It was Sara calling, and he picked up immediately.

"Hi, Sara. No, everything's fine… I'm okay… Well, I had a headache in the morning… Um, not exactly… I sort of fell when I was trying to get out of bed… No, that's not necessary, I'm feeling fine. In fact, I'm pretty much ready to be at work tomorrow… What? Oh, you shouldn't have… I'm going to make it up to you, I promise… You're an angel, really… To be honest, yes, I am. Thanks for understanding… See you soon."

Well, now he seemed to have another day off tomorrow, thanks to Sara's generosity. And, considering that Sherlock could return at any moment, he really needed it. If they were going to continue their association, they needed to straighten some things out, and John was now determined to see to that. But frankly, he already pretty much decided to continue said association, so it was just a matter of clearing the subject.

But for now all he was left to do is wait for Sherlock to return. So he turned the telly on and started flipping through channels, looking for something interesting. At some point he must have dozed off, because he was actually woken up by the sound of the front door being closed rather loudly, and then he heard two voices downstairs, apparently arguing. He started to stand, intent on going down there, but his visitors were already ascending the stairs, judging by the sounds of footsteps, so he remained on the sofa, waiting.

Finally the door flew open, and a nastily bloodied and bruised Sherlock stumbled through, supported by extremely unhappy looking Detective Inspector Lestrade…


	8. The mystery

**Hello and sorry for the delay, I was kind of busy elsewhere****. Anyway, hope you'll like the new chapter. And thanks for waiting. :)**

John sprang to his feet and bolted across the room, grabbing hold of Sherlock, so the younger man was between them now. The detective's clothes were dirty and damp, and he was shivering constantly.

"What the hell happened?" John demanded sharply.

Sherlock slowly turned his head in John's direction and blinked, licking his lips. His pupils were clearly dilated.

Shit. That wasn't good.

"Oh, John!" Sherlock slurred. "John, I need to tell you something… I need…"

"Later, Sherlock. Let's get you to the sofa. You can lie down and I'll check you over, okay?" John took a step forward, urging the other two men to follow.

But Sherlock stubbornly halted their progress, starting to struggle abruptly. "No! John, it's important! I need to tell…"

John looked at the Detective Inspector in exasperation. Lestrade sighed tiredly and renewed his grip on Sherlock, blocking the detective's flailing arm.

"Guess we just need to drag him along," John concluded.

"Guess so," Lestrade agreed. "Take a good grip, Doctor."

It took them almost two minutes to get Sherlock to cooperate, because the detective was hell-bent on relaying his message to John, but clearly not quite capable of doing that in his condition. Finally he gave up and stopped his attempts, and they stumbled over to the sofa, wavering occasionally. There were a couple of steps left, when suddenly Sherlock went limp in their arms.

John cursed under his breath and made a final lunge. Luckily, Lestrade anticipated his action, and copied his movement, so half a minute later they managed to dump their unresponsive burden on the sofa. John immediately pressed his fingers to Sherlock's neck, checking his friend's pulse. Finding it, the ex-army doctor breathed out the sigh of relief and glanced at the Detective Inspector.

"Can you help me to get him on his back? I need to check him. And I'll really appreciate if you tell me what happened."

Lestrade nodded, and they carefully turned the unconscious detective over and laid him on his back.

"Mind if I sit down?" Lestrade asked tiredly. "Too much excitement for the one day, I'm dead on my feet."

"Of course, make yourself at home," John already started checking Sherlock's injuries. "Have a cuppa, if you want."

"Thank you, Doctor," Lestrade practically fell into the chair. "I'll just rest for a while."

"As you wish," John carefully unbuttoned Sherlock's jacket and shirt, pushing them aside to get a good look at his friend's torso.

Despite his ragged appearance, the younger man sustained only minimal damage. Granted, the bruising was quite extensive, but other than that, just a few scratches, which were already clotted over. Sherlock's wrists looked raw and swollen, which meant that he had been bound and tried to get free. There was also a nasty cut on his forehead, and it was still bleeding sluggishly, so John immediately went into the kitchen to fetch a first-aid kit. On his way back he stopped abruptly and turned towards Lestrade.

"I might need your help with getting Sherlock into the dry clothes," John frowned slightly. "Are you up to it?"

"Sure," the Detective Inspector nodded. "And don't worry; it wouldn't be the first time, if that's what you're concerned about."

"Good. I'm going to clean the cut on his forehead, and then I'll get the clothes. After that, when he is all warm and comfy, we need to talk. Agreed?"

Lestrade nodded silently, and John proceeded to act according to his plan. It took them half an hour to get everything done, and finally, when Sherlock rested comfortably on the sofa, covered with the blanket, they went into the kitchen.

"So what's happened?" John asked, preparing the two cups of tea and putting the plate with biscuits on the table.

Lestrade took a sip from his cup and sighed blissfully, then started to explain. "I've got a text from the anonymous source, just the coordinates and a request to come and fetch somebody. Decided to drive there and check the information."

"Without backup?"

"It was a personal message, no reason to alert the troops. And besides, I can protect myself."

"Sorry. Go on."

"The place mentioned in the message was, in fact, the riverbank. Did you know that there was a high tide today?"

"No. Should I?"

"Probably not. Anyway, I drove there and found Sherlock. He was tied up and drugged, and the water was rising… Luckily, I got there in time. Whoever did this clearly was opting on killing him slowly and painfully – they took his coat and left him to drown…"

"They?"

"That's just the assumption. By the way, I found the coat; they dumped it a couple of steps away from him. Probably thought it was funny…"

"Yes, and probably he managed to piss them off. You know him, it happens. Go on. One question though: how did you know he was drugged?"

"That's simple: I found the syringe, and there's a puncture mark on his neck, I think you've noticed it when you were checking him," John simply nodded, acknowledging Lestrade's words. "And the symptoms are clear."

"You should've brought him to the hospital."

"That was my first intention. But he downright refused, and demanded that he needed to see you immediately. And you're always taking good care of him, so I thought…"

"Well, as far as I can tell, he has no serious injuries this time, only a couple of scratches and an extensive bruising. That I can sort out myself."

"He certainly got lucky this time."

"That's because he has a good friends, against all odds, I might add. Okay, there's only one question left. You texted him, and you were supposed to be together. So why are you weren't?"

The Detective Inspector frowned. "Yes, I've send the text, but I've got no answer, so I thought that he wasn't interested."

"Yeah, he was kind of busy at that moment," John glanced away briefly. "But when you texted him the second time…"

Lestrade's frown deepened. "Well, that's odd."

An uneasy feeling suddenly took residence in the pit of John's stomach. "What exactly are you talking about, Inspector?"

Lestrade looked at him, shaking his head slightly. "Whoever sent that second text certainly wasn't me, Doctor."

**Well, the next chapter will be the last. Seriously. I promise.**


	9. Choosing his side

Sherlock always berated him for asking stupid questions, but now John just couldn't help it.

"What do you mean, it wasn't you?" he frowned. "Then who it was?"

Lestrade shrugged. "No idea. Maybe you should check his phone. Or ask him, when he wakes up."

"I think I'll choose the second option," John downed his tea and looked in the direction of sofa. "Although it could take a while, I think."

The Detective Inspector glanced at him sympathetically. "You could use that time to rest yourself, Doctor. Because when he wakes up, you're going to have your hands full. Trust me on that."

"Past experience?" the blond-haired man enquired curiously.

"Too many of them, if you ask me," Lestrade started to get up. "Now excuse me, but I should get back to work. If you need anything, just give me a call."

"Thank you, but I think we'll manage."

"As you wish. But I'll call tomorrow anyway, just to be sure that you're both okay," the Detective Inspector cast a final glance at Sherlock and left the room, John following him downstairs. At the front door, Lestrade turned and looked at the ex-army medic. "I've got to warn you, it can get ugly. I don't know exactly how much they gave him, but let's not forget that he's a former addict. So keep an eye on him the next few days."

"Will do. Thanks for your help, Inspector."

"Oh, it's nothing. You can always count on me. Evening, Doctor."

"Evening."

John closed and locked the front door and went back to the living room. Sherlock turned in his sleep, and now was facing the back of a sofa. John carefully straightened the blanket and then sat in the nearest chair, intending to hold vigil over his sleeping flatmate. But the fatigue soon took its toll, and the blond didn't even notice as he slipped into a deep slumber…

* * *

John woke up with a start and looked around in confusion, trying to understand what brought him awake so suddenly. And the reason presented itself immediately in the form of clear grey-blue eyes which were looking at him intently.

"Sherlock?" John leaned forward, wincing when the muscles in his back protested vigorously. "You're awake, thank God. How are you feeling?"

His friend, as usual, countered John's questions with his own. "How had I gotten home? I don't remember a thing."

"Lestrade picked you up at the river bank. By the way, care to explain what the hell happened?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and turned his head, facing away.

"Don't you dare to shut me out now, Sherlock!" John lunged forward and grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders, shaking him slightly. The younger man hissed in pain and tried to push his friend away, but John was having none of that. "Look at me!"

The consulting detective sat up abruptly, and John, who wasn't expecting such a movement, instinctively let Sherlock go. As a result he immediately lost his balance and ended up hitting the floor quite painfully. Dazed from the impact, John watched, dumbfounded, as Sherlock silently got up, stepped over him and slowly went towards his room.

It took a few moments for John to finally snap out of his daze and get up from the floor. And then he stormed after his flatmate, catching the dark-haired man at the door of his bedroom. Hearing John approaching, Sherlock turned around and waited, his expression calm and almost serene. The ex-army doctor stopped short, as if hitting the invisible wall, and all struggle went out of him abruptly. They stood silently, just staring at each other until the moment when Sherlock blinked, wavered unsteadily and started to fall sideways. John reacted immediately by grabbing hold of Sherlock with one hand and pushing the door open with the other. Sherlock leaned heavily on him, and they slowly made their way over to the bed, John helping his friend to lie down and making sure he rested comfortably. The detective's fingers closed around the shorter man's wrist, preventing him from leaving, and John felt himself being pulled down insistently. He obediently sat on the bed and glanced at his friend questioningly.

Sherlock cleared his throat uneasily. "John, I need to tell you something."

"And I need to apologise."

"Apologise?" Sherlock frowned. "What for?"

"Back in the living room, I shouldn't have…"

"No, that's… okay, actually…"

"It is?"

"Absolutely."

"That's good. Now, you were saying?"

"John, I was thinking..," Sherlock began, but stopped abruptly, turning his head towards the door. "Is that my phone?"

The ex-army doctor strained his ears and immediately heard it – a distinct sound of Sherlock's phone, heralding an incoming call. The detective started to get up, but John shook his head disapprovingly and pushed his friend back onto the bed. "Don't be stupid, I'll get it for you."

"Thank you," Sherlock slid up the bed and sat with his back against the headboard.

By the time John got in the living room, Sherlock's phone already stopped ringing. Scooping the device up from the coffee table, the doctor glanced briefly at the screen and his eyes widened. There were a dozen missed calls from Mycroft, and the equal amount of text messages. Intrigued, John briefly toyed with the idea of taking a peek at them, and his finger already lingered over the 'Receive' button, but right at that moment Sherlock called his name impatiently. Snapping out of his reverie, John quickly went back to Sherlock's bedroom, deciding to simply ask his friend directly about the mysterious yesterday message.

"Finally!" Sherlock reached out, snatching the phone out of John's hand and started sorting out his calls and messages. Mycroft's were obviously deleted without looking, judging by the expression on the younger man's face; but there were the other two which the detective chose to acknowledge, firing the answering texts off in quick succession. Finishing his task, he glanced up and noticed the uncertain expression on the older man's face.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock asked calmly, placing his phone on a bedside table.

"I was just wondering..," John paused, then seemed to work up his courage and plunged onward. "Sherlock, yesterday, when you've left after receiving the message… Who sent it to you? And don't tell me that it was from Lestrade, because I'm already know that's not true."

Sherlock looked at him for a few moments, then grabbed his phone and started flicking through the received messages. Finally finding the one he was looking for, the detective showed it to his friend.

_Get out of the flat. I'll sort everything out. MH_

"You actually listened to him?" John asked, perplexed.

"It seemed the most rational thing to do at that moment," Sherlock admitted, albeit grudgingly.

"So he knew all along..," John said thoughtfully, and then snapped his mouth shut, realising that he outed himself completely.

Too late. Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly. "What are you talking about?"

"Mycroft… paid a visit after your departure. Apparently, our initial meeting wasn't incidental. Your brother seems to have control over everything. Except you, maybe."

Sherlock's face remained impassive. "I'm surprised he told you. He rarely discloses his secrets."

"Well, I think I surprised him yesterday," John admitted, feeling relieved by Sherlock's obvious acceptance of the situation.

"Yes, that was quite an interesting… experience," Sherlock turned his attention back to the phone, searching for something. "Although I have no inclination to repeating it ever again."

"Neither do I," John agreed easily.

They were silent for the next several minutes – Sherlock still looking at his phone and John just looking at Sherlock. There was only one subject left unclear, and John already opened his mouth to ask the final question, when Sherlock finally seemed to find what he was looking for.

"That's why I ended up on the river bank," he commented, passing his phone to John. "Have a look."

_Just a little something to cheer you up. Look at the attachment. M_

"Moriarty?" John guessed, handing the phone back, and Sherlock nodded curtly. "And the attachment?"

"A warehouse in the outskirts of London. Two operatives from the Black Lotus inside, intended on settling scores. Shan is dead, apparently, and they decided to avenge her."

"Then who send the message to Lestrade?" John asked, frowning.

"What message?" Sherlock matched John's frown with his own.

"The message in which he was asked to come and pick somebody up. And that somebody turned out to be you, Sherlock."

"Interesting," was all that Sherlock said, hands already coming into the steepled position in front of his lips.

"Don't even think about it," John warned, noticing the familiar spark in his flatmate's eyes.

"Don't think about what?" Sherlock said innocently.

"Don't think about whatever… you're thinking about. Not going to happen."

"You're no fun," Sherlock complained, throwing his phone on the bed.

Right at that moment, John's own phone rang in his pocket, and the doctor pulled it out. Lestrade' number appeared on the screen, and Sherlock, who managed to spot that, immediately snatched the phone out of John's fingers.

"Hey!" the blond said indignantly, but the detective already pressed the button and brought the phone to his ear.

"Hello, Inspector… Yes, that's me. No, John is right here… Well, I just wanted to say 'hello'. Fine, the recovery is progressing… Thank you, I will. Any news on your side?" Sherlock's face lit up after Lestrade's answer, and John rolled his eyes. "Really? I'll be there in half an hour… Thanks for your concern, but I'm absolutely fine. Okay. See you soon."

"You just had to do this, hadn't you?" John huffed in exasperation. "Sherlock, you need to rest at least two days to fully recover."

"Nonsense, John," the detective resolutely got out of bed and went to the wardrobe. "You know full well that work for me is the best cure. Now don't just sit there, get dressed! We're leaving in ten minutes."

"Hopeless," John muttered under his breath, but nevertheless went to his room and changed his clothes.

Sherlock was waiting for him in the living room, all but tapping his foot impatiently. "At last!" he commented, pulling his gloves on.

"Are you sure you up to this, Sherlock?" John asked worriedly, noticing how pale Sherlock looked.

"Pretty sure. And besides, you're going to be near all the time, so I've nothing to worry about. Especially after the yesterday's events," the detective winked at his friend.

John sighed long-sufferingly. "You're just going to rub it into my face every time, aren't you?"

"Don't worry, you'll get used to it pretty soon. Now, let's go, we have a case to solve!" Sherlock grinned, turned on his heels and fled out of the room.

"I think I'm used to it already," John mused aloud. "God help me."

"John!" Sherlock bellowed from downstairs.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming!" John shouted, hurrying after his friend…

Life with Sherlock Holmes wasn't going to be an easy thing. But it clearly promised to be quite interesting, and that's all that mattered for John Watson. He finally chose his side and was determined to stick with his choice till the end. And God help anyone who would try to stop him...

**So, that's the end of story. Thanks to all of you who have read, reviewed and put this story in favourites and on alerts. You were my inspiration and the reason to keep writing. THANK YOU!**


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